


Flames In The Ice

by Gelida Solis (AViewerLikeMe)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional, Episode: s07e05 Eastwatch, F/M, Feels, Jon Snow Brooding, Jonerys, Premonition, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 13:55:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17448269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AViewerLikeMe/pseuds/Gelida%20Solis
Summary: "Why me?  Why us?"  "Would that I could have the answer, Daenerys."  Jon goes out on Dragonstone's backyard to think on the night before their wight mission.  He is graced by an unexpected visitor.  An AU-Season 7 Oneshot.





	Flames In The Ice

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Noh. Nothin’, milords. 
> 
>  
> 
> This has been crawling around my head and I finally finished it. Hope you all like it!

**Flames In The Ice**

 

  

 

ø

 

 

He cannot unsee it.

 

As many times as he polishes Longclaw, checks his belongings or takes a sip of the wine he took back to his room, he cannot unsee the look on her face when she realized he was going Beyond The Wall.

 

That soft smooth face, rigid with regality, suddenly unmasked by emotion. The pink lips parted with a quickened breath. The unbidden fear and dissent in her violet eyes. The tremble in her voice as she tried to wield her power over him, to make him stay. The reluctant nod she finally jerked in his direction, and the haste with which she dismissed them all to prepare for the journey.

 

Night has fallen, the stars are out and shining, the boat is ready for sailing tomorrow at midday, and all Jon Snow can think about is the one thing he cannot unsee: Daenerys Targaryen caring for him.

 

He tried to ignore it for the sake of the meeting, tried to look away from her after he realized what that furrowed brow meant, but even as he declared that he didn't need her permission to go anywhere, his chest was wracked with guilt. He had tried to tell her through his eyes that he was sorry, that this was the only way, and that he was willing and ready to give his life for his cause, but that seemed only to make her more afraid. His heart tightened with apologies and other dangerous declarations that he would never say out loud.

 

Or at least, he thought he wouldn’t.

 

But once Jon had bathed and dressed for bed, and now that Jon sits upon the stone windowsill to gaze at the stars, all he can think about is what he could say to her if she were here.

 

_I’m sorry._ _  
_

_I have to try._ _  
_

_This is too important._ _  
_

_Please don’t hate me._ _  
_

_Please don’t be mad at me._ _  
_

_I’ll come back._ _I swear I_ _will._ _  
_

_You may not have the North, but_ _you might have Me._ _  
_

It all sounds so flimsy and stupid once he hears it in his voice. He imagines the discomfort on her face as he tries to explain himself, the grin on Tyrion’s face from afar as he watches. Jon goes red in the face thinking on how many times the Hand has caught him lingering too long in his gaze of the Queen. He prays to all the Gods that she hasn’t been told.

 

But the way she looked at him, in that strategy room, told him more than he wanted to know. He could be content in his unrequited feelings, watching from afar and fighting for the future she believes in. She’d never have to know. He would be her ally, her friend, anything but what his heart begged for, and he would deal with it like a man.

 

Instead, he is here, suffocating under the knowledge that she feels it too—whatever this is that he feels—and right now she could be thinking of him too.

 

The Sky is beautifully clear indigo. The stars were scattered like dust, their gentle glow hypnotizing him. He looks down at the cliffs, the green grass swaying slightly with the wind. He remembers standing there with his hand on the snout of a Dragon, and how its mother smiled at him when she dismounted. He can still see the stray hair that made it out of her braided ponytail as she looked up at her children, can still see the curve of her jaw and the pink of her lips curved up into a smile. He had done nothing then. Just as he had done nothing in the cave.

 

And now that he’s certainly going to die in a few days, he is _still_ doing nothing.

 

Without thinking, Jon is pulling on his boots and hastily grabbing a thicker over-shirt. His cloak remains slung over his chair; he needs to feel the chill tonight.

 

After he quietly opens and shuts his door, Jon is walking with purpose through the stone halls, his eyes straight ahead, looking ahead until he finds himself at the back exit of the castle, which is guarded by two Dothraki guards. He almost feels a thrill of fear, but when they see him, they look him up and down with a dismissive glance, they turn away from him, as if to imply that he isn’t even worth the distrust. Far from upsetting him, Jon breathes out a relieved sigh and keeps going, further and further into the meadows of Dragonstone, until he can’t see anything or anyone within a few miles except for that vast structure carved of stone.

 

Jon pulls his knees up to his chest when he sits. Leaning his arms on his knees and holding each of his elbows. The wind is cool against his feverish face. He misses home. Even these Fall winds aren’t cool enough. He wants to feel the snow in his hands, he wants to see his breath like smoke filling the air. He misses Winterfell, the cold and the coziness. Unbidden in his mind forms an image of her in a long cloak with white furs protecting her neck, lining the inside of her hood. He imagines her looking up at the sky, snow falling all around her. He imagines raising his hand and touching her cheek, stroking it gently like the precious gem it is.

 

Jon shuts his eyes and shakes his head rapidly to rid himself of the vision. He’s already wasting time here when he should be sleeping; no need to make himself suffer while he’s here.

 

But still, he wishes for Winterfell, and every time he thinks of Winterfell, he thinks of Daenerys and her white hooded cloak, smiling in the snow.

 

It’s too beautiful a lie to resist, Jon decides, sighing heavily. If only she weren’t so beautiful. If only her beauty was just skin deep. If only she didn’t care for him.

 

If only.....

 

“Jon?”

 

He freezes as fast as a child caught with his hand in the sweet basket. He feels his heart pound in his chest, his mouth running dry. It’s not Davos. It’s not Tyrion.

 

He knows this voice all too well.

 

Slowly, without moving the rest of his body, he turns his head to look behind him. She stands a few feet behind him, in a light gray robe, the silk of her nightgown trailing below the hem. Her hair is pulled into one loose braid slung over the front of her shoulder. She is regal and timid all at once.

 

“Your Grace,” he offers lamely.

 

She shakes her head. Stays silent. He squints.

 

“Queen Daenerys.”

 

She steps closer, rolling her eyes. “Jon,” she says in a mock exasperated voice.

 

And suddenly he gets it. He swallows hard before saying it.

 

“Daenerys.”

 

Part of him wonders if this is a dream. In what world would Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen insist that the Bastard Of Winterfell address her so personally? Then again, she had just done the same for him, which reminds him that he’s never heard her call him just “Jon.” It sounds like precious gems falling from her lips.

 

She smiles tightly and sits down cross-legged two feet away from him; she’s next to him and behind him all at once. He supposed it’s a good representation of what he truly wants: her, beside him, behind him, all around him, wherever he goes.

 

“I’ve never seen you brooding here before,” says Daenerys, her voice sending a chill up his spine. “Or at a time like this.”

 

He shrugs like it means nothing to be here, leveling his gaze on the seas. “Needed the fresh air. What with everything happening tomorrow...”

 

“...You needed a place to think,” Daenerys finishes heavily.

 

Jon swallows and nods. “Is that why you came out here?

 

“Yes. It seems great minds think alike.”

 

He turns back to her, unsure of how to respond, and yet—Is it his eyes, or have her cheeks just gone pink?

 

Daenerys looks out at the ocean, illuminated by the moonlight, her eyes squinting slightly against the wind.  Her hair is at the mercy of the breeze, and it makes her look even more surreal.

 

"Have you noticed we're the youngest ones in our council?"  

 

Jon huffs a laugh out at that.  "Aye," he says, "although I must admit, Your Gr-- _Daenerys_ , I don't really notice my youth anymore."

 

Daenerys sighs, a sad smile playing at her lips.  "I do not notice it either.  I had to stop being 'young' a long time ago.  But it still gets me sometimes."

 

_Kill the boy, and let the man be born._ Aemon's words float around his head like the soft drizzle of rain.  It seems they both followed the old Targareyn's advice. 

 

The Old Targ--

 

Jon nearly smacks himself in the face when he realizes he completely forgot to tell Daenerys about the man; she would be overjoyed knowing there was another Targaryen in the world, old and blind as he may be...

 

Dead as he may be.

 

_Perhaps another time,_ Jon reasons with himself.   _After all of this has died down.  Once we get the wight._

 

"How old are you again?" Daenerys's voice breaks his reverie with a start.

 

"Ah," he runs a hand over his hair, "I'm...three and twenty. Yeah.  Three and twenty."

 

Her lips quirk up and she raises an eyebrow.  "Can't be sure of your own age, Jon Snow?"

 

Jon's laugh is harder this time.  "Ugh, I just haven't been celebrating Namedays in so long, I nearly forgot to count this past one!"

 

Her giggles flutter through his ear and tickle his beard.  The sound of her laugh is a rare thing.  Hopefully, he can make her laugh more--

 

_Pull your fucking self together, Jon._

 

"Now that you mention it, I only started celebrating again on the journey here.  I hadn't done it in years!  Not since--" she comes to a stop, holding her breath like someone knocked the wind out of her.  "Well, not since my time with the Khalasar."

 

Jon knows she's remembering something painful; he wears the same gasping-for-air look that Davos is always trying to erase, bless the old man's heart.  

 

"And how old are you now, if you don't mind my asking?"

 

She takes a deep calming breath.  "I am...two and twenty now."  And he is taken aback for a second because she holds herself like a woman who's lived at least to the age of two and forty.  The depths of her eyes tell stories of a life lived too fast with too much to learn the hard way.  Jon can't even remember seeing her truly smile or laugh since he's been here.

 

Much like himself.

 

"Gods, saying it out loud...we're so young, Jon," Daenerys laments, hair whipping at her face.  "Could you ever have imagined this when you first set out to be a Brother of the Night's Watch?"

 

That name still makes him suck in a breath.  "No.  I only wanted to do right by the realm.  Be of some use to the world, somehow.  I didn't even want to be Lord Commander," he scratches his beard broodingly.  "I just wanted to belong somewhere."

 

"I...know how that feels.  Once upon a time, I just wanted to go home," she replies in a small voice, looking down into her lap.  

 

"I think we might have more in common than I first believed," Jon offers tentatively, watching the age-old sadness mar her beautiful face.  "If nothing else, we rule because no one else will."

 

"Right.  We spend our lives in the shadows of our Houses, our parents, our families, picking up the mess they left behind."  Her eyes were furrowed now in a deep frown.  "We are different and judged for it, coveted for it--" a shudder goes through her, and Jon remembers her words of being raped and defiled.  He clenches his fist until the moment of rage passes. "And here I am, at two and twenty, with more scars than is expected of a young girl, and everything in this wretched world to lose."

 

She throws her head back and rolls it around in defeat. "I just...why me?  Why us?"

 

"Would that I could have the answer, Daenerys," says Jon depressingly, and he meant it; He'd give up every title and crown if he could just find the answers to the questions no one can ever give.  

 

While she lays her cheek on her arms, gazing ahead, he can't but gaze upon her again, with some sympathy, and more guilt.  

 

When did he ever find her a stranger?  A reincarnated Mad King or a silver-haired Cersei?  How did he not sense the kindred spirit lying beneath her startlingly violet eyes? How could he not notice the way their journeys parallel so well, as Davos and Tyrion have pointed out for weeks?  How long ago was it that he only saw her face as cold and detached, when in truth, she is fire made flesh, and there is always more to her expressions than meets the eye?

 

He blinks rapidly and looks out at the water again, but he can't rid himself of the image that has come back--Daenerys Targaryen showing fear for  _him._ Daenerys Targaryen  _caring._ For  _him._ Such a realization set off sparks in his heat that just won't go away.  All because of  _her._

 

He can go on scolding himself for hours, but Danerys has raised her head and swallows hard.

 

"I must confess, Jon Snow," she announces with some trepidation, "that I have not simply come out here on a whim."

 

"No?"

 

"No.  I came out here because..." she takes a deep breath, and Jon is already panicking over what she could possibly have to confess to him.

 

"I had a dream."

 

He blinks.

 

"No.  A nightmare."  Daenerys hugs her knees to her chest and hunches over.  "I was back in Qarth, in the House Of The Undying--"

 

_Where?  What?_ Jon wants to ask so badly but doesn't want to ruin this rare moment of vulnerability she's sharing with him.

 

"I walked through the Vision of the Iron Throne covered in snow, and then a gate opened in front of me, and I was standing in a frozen wasteland.  A snowstorm was underway, and although I could not feel it, the intensity was easy to see."  Daenerys looks anywhere but at Jon.  All he wants is for her to look at him, and it pisses him off that she doesn't feel comfortable doing so right now.  This dream must have been a terror.

 

"I looked to my left, and there was the tallest wall of Ice I'd ever seen.  Hundreds of feet tall, thousands of miles wide--I couldn't even see where it began or ended."

 

That makes him do a double-take.   _The wall?_ His brain shouts.   _She's talking about THE WALL?_

 

Daenerys is so caught up in her retelling of the dream that she can't notice Jon's surprise.  "I don't know why I was walking toward it, but I just felt like I was supposed to be there...The skies were getting darker, I tried to walk faster, but my feet wouldn't listen to me."  Frustration laces her voice.  Jon says nothing to console her, nothing at all; he is waiting with bated breath, like a child listening to a scary story.

 

"The closer I got to the wall, the more I could see this...bright blue glow, in the middle of the wall," Daenerys wrung her hands.  "It was a flower.  A blue flower, growing out of the ice itself, glowing in the dark like a nightlight."

 

Jon wonders if she can hear the way his heart pounds against his ribcage, rattling every other organ in his body.  " _No flower is so rare nor precious."_

 

_A Winter Rose._

 

"It was so beautiful, Jon," Daenerys breathed, staring dazedly at the sea.  "The most beautiful flower growing out of ice, of all things.  It smelled so sweet.  I...I reached out to touch it," and her arm extended somewhat in front of her as if she's reaching for it again when her face suddenly turns disturbing.

 

"Then I heard your screams."

 

"What?" He can't help it.  Fear is pushing past his lips with every shallow breath, the fear of what this could mean for him, for the world.

 

"You were yelling out, 'stormy back! Fall back!' Then you were just shouting and calling out things--I couldn't tell--"she shakes her head like the action can rid her of the memory.  "I tried to look around, but no one was there, not for miles...but then I realized...the voice was coming from the rose."

 

Daenerys's lip is trembling.  He can't tell whether she wants to be comforted or to shoulder the weight of this nightmare alone.  She still has not looked at him; instead, she lets her eyes dart from left to right, top to bottom, as if she could maybe find sense in her dream somewhere in the night skies.

 

"I kept trying to reach for it, but I wasn't close enough, my feet would not move, and...in the next moment, the ground was rumbling. And the ice was cracking." She rubs her arms vigorously like she's freezing, and Jon is one second away from rubbing them for her.

 

"When I look up at the Wall, it was collapsing on itself." Her voice is a whisper now, and Jon has to move closer to her than proper just to hear the rest.  "I looked back down and the rose was in my hand...I could hear you yelling...'Go now! Leave!'" She is now trembling, caught in the memory of her nightmare.  "The last thing I remember is the Wall crumbling over me, and the sound of your screams."

 

The silence that follows is shaky at best; the short, shallow breaths from her is accompanied by his own.  Jon is numb with shock and fear; everything about this nightmare sounds like more than a simple nightmare; it screams of foreboding, of premonition, of the worst case scenario he can think of.  The only question left to ponder is why it's  _Daenerys_ who is given this warning, of all people.

 

"I've dreamed of many things, Jon Snow," the woman says, turning to face him with glassy eyes.  "I've been witness to all kinds of magic, the worst kinds used against me.  I've seen the magic in my veins that allows me to walk through fire unscathed.  And I've been to a House of visions, like the Iron Throne covered in snow, the ghosts of my husband and child--"

 

_Child?  She had a child?_

 

"--and this same wall, with the same blue flower!"  Danerys puts her head in her hands forlornly.  Jon doesn't have time to gape before she pushes on.

 

"But now I understand what that wall and that flower mean...and no dream has felt more real or frightening than this one." Her voice is cracking under the weight of her emotion, her face paler than he's ever seen it.  He can't imagine he looks much better.

 

"What are you saying?" he has to ask because he's caught between paralyzing fear and crippling hope that maybe now, finally, this beautiful queen believes him.

 

Daenerys takes a deep shuddering breath and places her hand over his fist, clenched on the grass. Her voice is small.

 

"Do you have to go?" 

 

It's a question he's known the answer to the moment he volunteered himself.  There was no doubt then and little doubt now, despite the reaction to his choice.  As dangerous and life-threatening as it is, and much as he would like to live long enough to defeat the Night King, there is no one more fit to lead the mission than him.  As long as the wight comes down South, it doesn't matter whether or not Jon Snow, Bastard of Winterfell, comes down with it.  Sansa can take over the North; Bran and Arya can work with her to protect Winterfell, and with proof of the Dead, the two Queens and three dragons will defend the North better than he ever could.

 

Of course, he has to go.

 

But looking into her distressed face, watching her eyes well up even more while she bites down on her pretty bottom lip, waiting for an answer, Jon can't help but wish he didn't.

 

"Aye," he rasps, unclenching his fist to press her hand between both palms.  "I have to go.  But I swear to you, on the Old Gods and the New, that I don't want to."

 

It seems to be the right answer; her body sags slightly, as if a weight has been lifted, which he can't understand.

 

"And what do you want, Jon Snow?" Daenerys whispers, leaning in so close he can see the faint crease of worry lines on her smooth forehead.  The light scent of flowers and an unidentifiable perfume invades his nostrils, and he is all too happy to allow it.  Under his fingers, he feels her pulse quicken in her wrist.  He feels her own fingers flex between his hands and wonders if she notices how clammy they feel now.

 

"I want..."

 

_To say fuck the mission and let someone else handle it.  To pet Drogon again just so I can see you smile at me the way you did.  To take you to your bedchambers and have you pull me indoors.  To take you apart with everything I have to offer.  To kneel on both knees in the only submission worthwhile._

 

_To never be alone again._

 

He swallows the lump in his throat and cups her face with his free hand, pulling her in gently so their foreheads kiss each other.  Their eyes are locked tight as chests and safes.  

 

"I want to stay with you."

 

To her credit, she doesn’t even flinch, and save for a hitched breath, he cannot tell that she’s surprised by his words at all. 

 

Maybe there had been something to the tension between them since their first meeting. Maybe Ser Davos had a point to his teasing. Maybe The lurch in Jon’s stomach upon seeing her and her dragon wasn’t simply fear or intimidation. Maybe he’s been staring at her good heart because a good heart is truly there. 

 

Maybe there _is_ time for this. For them. 

 

Daenerys seems to have made that conclusion long before him, because she has qualms with nuzzling her nose against his, grasping the side of his face and lightly scratching his beard. 

 

“Then why don’t you stay?”

 

His heart sinks.

 

”Tonight,” she adds quickly.  “Just for a little longer. I know it’s cold and damp here, but...the moment we walk back through those doors, we got to our own rooms and wake up only to say goodbye again.”

 

It might be foolish, or dangerous, given how easily they could be spotted out here.  It might be irresponsible, when Jon should be asleep in his room or at least trying to sleep so he can be at his best tomorrow.  Jon knows all the reasons why this is wrong.

 

But one look at this tiny giant of a woman, with her shiny eyes and her uncertain pursed lips, the apples of her cheeks glistening with the drizzling rain, and the only thing left in his mind is what’s right. 

 

This is right. 

 

He he tilts her chin upward, and she closes her eyes at once.  He, however, keeps his eyes on her face as he gently touches his lips to hers, a slow drag of her upper lip between his own, a soft press of flesh with warm breath shared between them.  His eyelids only fail him when she moves to gently bite his bottom lip with the kind of longing he’s never imagined any woman could feel for a man like him.  The long push of breath through her nose tickles his skin, and he pulls her closer to take her bottom lip for himself.  It’s heaven in a taste, and the moan that slips past her tongue is an angel’s song.

 

This goes on for Gods know how long, the two of them clinging to each other like lifelines, kissing each other delicately and savoring the taste of what is clearly love.

 

But it’s not quite time for such a word yet, and eventually they do break away from each other, with intense reluctance.

 

”King in the North,” Daenerys murmurs sweetly.  “I fear I have a conundrum.  I’m starting to feel cold and yet I have no coat.  I would have to go back into the castle....but I don’t want to.  Not yet.”

 

He can’t help but smile at her cheeky grin, thankful for the lightheartedness of the moment, a break from anchor of reality.

 

Sure, he could insist on walking her back to her quarters and say goodbye tonight. Do the responsible, noble, dutiful, honorable thing. By the look on her face, she would still harbor these feelings for him if he chose the less desirable option. So there could be a chance for them to do this more comfortably when he comes back.

 

If he comes back.

 

“Come closer then, Your Grace,” he answers roughly, watching her shiver at the tone of his voice.  “I’ve not a cloak on me at the moment but I’ll keep you fairly warm all the same.”

 

Her smile leaves him with no guilt as she climbs into his arms and kisses his jaw, then his cheeks, then his mouth. He peppers kisses over her silver hair, her eyebrows and eyelids, marveling at the warmth of her skin. 

 

“Come back, Jon Snow,” she says to him; the command sounds like a plea.  “Come back to me or I’ll climb aboard my dragons and hunt you down myself.” 

 

He will not let the tear in his eye escape. “I’ll do my best to come back to you,” he promises her, knowing he could never keep such a promise for sure.

 

She doesn’t seem to care.  “Yes you will,” she agrees, snuggling against his chest with her hand over his helpless, hopeful heart.  “You most certainly will.”

 

ø

 

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are always welcomed and appreciated!


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